Stand Up
by alexbernieharris
Summary: "Let me ask you a question Sherlock. Why does John limp?" John is faced with a very personal attack and Sherlock must justify a decision that ties him to a dear friend as Moriarty decides to get his very own "ordinary" person. Set between Moriarty's trial in S3E03 and Sherlock's fall.
1. Chapter 1

London. December 18th 2009. The last day of work before the Christmas holidays. Offices were emptying out and shops beginning to fill up with those buying presents in the last minute of the doors of The Guardian walked James Hargreaves. He had only worked for the paper for two years after he was forced into a change in career following a shot to the knee. He had been in the army for five years, working as a photographer. Although working for the paper was interesting, only two days ago he had photographed Barack Obama, he missed the camaraderie, the banter, the harmless pranks of the barracks. And most of all, he missed the thrill of it. The adrenaline boost . The feeling that you could never truly rest. That you were doing something worthy, serving your nation.

James turned is collar up to the wind and continued down towards Kings Cross. The station was packed with workers from all over the city desperate to get home or start that last minute Christmas shopping. As usual the top of the escalators was packed as tourists attempted to navigate the Oyster Card system and everyone else just wanted to get home. As he descended deeper and deeper below London he thought about his old job again. Although he did miss it, there was a certain freedom to being a civilian that you simply didn't have in the forces. He now felt able to enter a long term relationship without putting strain on his other half whilst he was away. Taking his phone out of his pocket he checked the time and looked at his wallpaper. It was a little cheesy but it was of himself, Russell and their new dog Axel, who used to be a military working dog. It would be nice to spend Christmas with them instead of in a desert. As he stepped off the bottom of the final escalator he heard the sound of a train pulling into the station. He tightened the grip around his rucksack and set off at a run. James was slower than he used to be, something which he was still to get used to. As he rounded the corner to the platform, the Victoria Line train pulled away. Never mind. Another would be along in three minutes. He stood looking at the tiled wall of the station.

"No-one really appreciates these" he thought. It was the photographer in him speaking, wanted to frame an amazing picture almost everywhere he went. He loved the underground. It was nearly 150 years old now. The trains running through the vast network of tunnels had changed as had the people travelling on them, but the system still had a charm he was yet to find anywhere else. He looked up to the board. Delayed for another five minutes. James took the backpack off his back and began to rifle through it for his camera. So what if he'd look like a tourist. London was beautiful. It was his home now. He took out his camera and walked back a few paces and started taking pictures of the signs, the tiles and (rather covertly) the people. He loved taking photos of people. Preserving moments in time to be viewed and reviewed in years to come. Some of his favourite photos he ever took were taken of his friends between patrols. Just having a laugh in the barracks.

James walked back towards the bottom of the packed escalators and positioned himself in the middle of the floor. The perfect Christmas photo of the desperate to get home. Shoppers laden with bags. Travellers hauling suitcases and backpacks around. But from the mania and jostling at the top of the escalators came order. The left of each escalator kept free, whilst the right side was packed.

He raised the camera…looked through the lens…took aim…

—

The shot travelled straight down the barrel of the lens, killing James instantly. He didn't have time to feel his phone buzzing in his pocket with the final message he would ever receive on this earth;

"Dulce et decorum est, pro patria mori"

—

John never really felt the need to meet up with friends from the army. That part of his life seemed so distant, almost alien, to him now, which was why he was surprised when he agreed to meet up with an old colleague. There were certain parts of his days in Afghanistan that he would rather forget. But Sherlock was doing a sterling job of filling John's head with new and different adventures. John would never tell Sherlock what he meant to him though. The guy had a big enough head already.

"Listen, I'm going out tonight" John started, tucking in the shirt Mrs Hudson had ironed for the occasion. Sherlock was sat at the kitchen table in his second best dressing gown after he'd accidentally shot a hole in his best one the previous week.

"And?" Sherlock replied, without even looking up from dissecting what looked to John horrifically like a human hand. John decided not to ask. He'd questioned Sherlock's experiments before and either nothing had happened or he'd received far more information than he ever wanted to receive.

"Well, I'm going to be back late so please remember to -"

"Eat, sleep, not overthrow the government…"

"Well yes to the first two and if you're going to do the third, could you wait until I get back?"

"Ah yes, because you need to document my every move for that blog of yours" Sherlock threw down his scalpel and began writing in his moleskine. John rolled his eyes.

"I'm being serious here. Its Friday. That's two days after Wednesday's wheatabix. Eat."

Sherlock finally looked up to reply but John had gone.

—

Paul had worked with John as a nurse. He'd been a sidekick almost. Someone to bounce ideas off. Have a laugh with. But it had been a good two years since either had made contact with the other. Shortly after John's injury they drifted. Whilst he was waiting for Paul to come back with the third round of drinks John did his best to try and bury the memories of the events leading up to their separation. But as the night wore on he couldn't avoid talking about the past, about their other friends, for any longer.

"How are the others doing?" John asked before taking a long drink of the latest round of Strongbow whilst Paul set his pint down.

"Tom's doing well. He's back on his feet again…well one of them. He's done really well, you know. He's started running again." Paul had evidently done a better job of keeping up with them than John had and was able to joke with them and about them. John attempted to join in,

"Well, Paralympics are just around the corner!"

"You know, I wouldn't be surprised if I saw him there. Peter is still touring, taking all the photos. He's got a new partner now of course. Guy called Tom. Apparently he's nice but not nearly as good as James was. Poor soul." Paul shook his head and took another swig of his drink.

"James never went back then?" John couldn't hide his surprise. Out of all of them James was the most fanatical about his service. Paul shook his head again.

"Nah. He would have been a liability. Couldn't move so quickly you see." Clearly James' injury was worse than John thought. John was desperate to keep the tone light and return it back to the jokey tone that had vanished just moments ago;

"What's he up to now then? I suppose he's doing exhibitions of his photos now." John smiled nervously, willing Paul to join in but instead Paul looked taken aback.

"What do you mean?" Paul scoffed. "He's dead. If you're wondering whether he got past the pearly gates and is now showing the beloved departed his shots of dogs in bullet proof vests, I reckon he didn't. He saw too much. Let too much go."

John sat there. Staring at Paul. It was a good thirty seconds before he spoke up.

"When? How?"

"Didn't you hear? Oh, actually you might have been in rehab still. He was shot. Clean through his camera. Right down the barrel of the lens" At this news John sobered up instantly.

"I though you said he didn't go back"

"He didn't. Kings Cross underground station. 5:30pm. Busiest time of the day. Couple of years ago now" How on earth had John missed this? Surely it would have been on the news. Surely someone would have told him? Had he really been that distant. Instead of asking these obvious questions John implausibly opted for something more neutral,

"What was he doing taking photos there?" Paul shrugged. Was Paul not bothered about the fact that James had been killed in a very public, very busy place?

"I dunno. He used to go all artsy like that occasionally didn't he. Bet he was on Instagram"

"Do they know who did it?" By now John had got his head back on straight.

"Hard to tell. Top of that escalator is a nightmare. It was a sniper though. I heard he'd got into debt. You know, gambling and that. He always was a bit of a risk taker. Probably someone that he owed money to or something. There was an enquiry but nothing ever came of it. It was closed after three days. Anyway, enough about that. Lets talk about something else grim. Hows Harry these days?"

Paul took a large swig of his pint. It was clear that all talk of James Hargreaves was over. John didn't appreciate the change in subject but went with it anyway and decided to act like he wasn't at all shocked that a comrade had been shot through the camera in the middle of a packed underground station. If Paul didn't seem phased, why should he be? Anyway he was quite enjoying talking to someone who didn't treat you as a substitute for a skull. He needed to get out more.

The evening continued and drifted into the early hours of the morning. The two men gathered their coats and said their goodbyes on the pavement.

"I'd best be heading off. Wife will kill me if I'm late. You know how it is. Your man will be having a go at you as well if you're not careful. See you around John" Paul gave a wave before walking his bike down towards the nearest tube station.

"He's not my — lovely seeing you again Paul"

John sighed, turned on his heel and headed towards the main road. John was, as far as a person could be, used to those around him being injured in combat and occasionally killed. But the fact that James was shot in the relative safety of Kings Cross underground station unnerved him a little. He believed Paul when he said that James had started gambling. He didn't believe that he would be bad at it. If anyone wanted James out the way it would have been for something else entirely. Paul was right. He did see too much. They all had. John shook his head. He was a different man back then. Younger, a little more reckless, too easily led. Too easily led by Corporal Hargreaves. As he rounded the corner a sharp pain ran through his leg followed by the dull throb that had become so familiar to him. The limp was back.

**Any and all feedback is much appreciated, A **


	2. Chapter 2

John hauled himself up the stairs of 221b. The middle stair creaked loudly as he stepped on it. He really must sort that out, he thought. It was too loud. Sherlock would be able to hear that even over his violin. Leaning heavily on the banister he made it to the top of the stairs and rested his head on the kitchen door frame. Evidence of Sherlock's experiments lay strewn over the table. It drove Mrs Hudson mad. He could hear her now,

"Its not hygienic Sherlock really…if you've marked that table…I only cleaned that on Tuesday!"

She indulged him though. It was only last week that John discovered that she had been freezing pig's eyeballs for Sherlock when she came in and asked when he would like them defrosted for.

He pulled his walking stick out of the umbrella stand and made his way to the sink. His body was about to start the destruction of the vast amount of alcohol he had consumed and he felt that copious amounts of water was exactly what was needed at this point. As he searched for a glass he saw that Sherlock had eaten something. One of Mrs Hudson's plates, more specifically the plate that Mrs Hudson had set aside for Sherlock's use only, sat discarded by the sink with the remnants of what could well have been a roast dinner. The only person who could get Sherlock to eat a square meal was Mrs Hudson. And John loved her for it.

—

John could only have been asleep for two hours when he was awoken by a very vivid nightmare. He was back in Helmand with the boys. They were on their way to…He cut himself off before he could think any further about it. That wasn't his life anymore.

Sitting up in bed, John berated himself for not knowing that James had died. He had been such a dominant part of his time in the army. He was larger than life. Saw the funny side in everything. But he was also fiercely loyal and proud of his position. Of his country. He judged people on whether he perceived them to be doing their duty. He felt John was. And Paul. And Tom. They all had professions that could easily make more money outside of the service but they had chosen to risk their lives for the greater good. For the defence of their nation and of their home. James liked that.

John moved to his desk in the living room and pulled up his long neglected Facebook account on his laptop. 92 notifications. Mainly happy birthday messages but it was an indication of how long he'd been away. He searched for James in his friends list and found he wasn't there. Maybe the family had deleted the account. Some didn't like them to turn into memorial pages. Instead he turned to Google but "James Hargreaves army photographer" returned nothing of any relevance. Even the official army photography blog had none of James' work. It was like every trace of James had died with him in Kings Cross.

Maybe his surname wasn't Hargreaves. Maybe John had got that wrong. It was a good few years since he'd thought of the man let alone spoke to him.

The leg was really starting to bother him now and he sought out some diazepam on his way back from finding a very dusty box of old army photos. Sitting on the couch he rifled through pictures of his passing out ceremony, pictures from the barracks, shots from Helmand and…there it was. A picture of the entire regiment, names written on the back.

Corporal J. E. Hargreaves

Underneath the large photo was a smaller one, taken after the formal regiment picture. It was of John smiling with his arm around James. The world was getting a little blurry thanks to the drowsiness that the diazepam had brought on which could explain why James' jet black hair, angular face and blue eyes suddenly looked a little like Sherlock.

Sherlock bounded into the living room slamming the door behind him

"John, I need you up and ready. We're going to Wandsworth" he called whilst pulling on his coat.

The bang of the door made John grab for his leg. Bleary eyed and with a headache the size of China John mumbled an agreement before kicking the box of photos under the sofa. He would always endeavour to keep Sherlock separate from his time in the army to protect Sherlock as much as himself.

As Sherlock rattled on about poison begin embedded in the adhesive bits of envelopes that you lick to seal them, the ache in John's leg began to fade. This is what Sherlock did to him. He made him forget. He gave him back the adventure and the thrill of the chase that had drawn him into the army. As Sherlock turned to him, just pausing for breath, John realised that his eyes had filled up.

"Anything the matter?" Sherlock asked, holding out John's coat.

Taking the coat John smiled up to Sherlock,

"No. Not anymore"

—

It had been almost two months since John had gone for a drink with Paul. The box of photos still lay discarded under the sofa, apparently missed by Mrs Hudson's occasional cleaning of the flat. Life with Sherlock continued on as bizarrely as it ever had but John had made a concerted effort to keep in touch with Paul. The two occasionally went out for a drink and had recently started going to the gym together. John had just come back from a very rigorous game of squash to find Sherlock sat at the kitchen table with his microscope and his phone vibrating in the lounge.

"Sherlock?" John asked, leaning heavily on the door frame "You're phone is ringing" Sherlock made no indication that he had heard John and continued to examine whatever it was on the slide in front of him. John rolled his eyes and walked over to where the phone was balanced on the edge of Sherlock's chair. It was Mycroft. Not only that but he had called twice already. John decided to fire Mycroft off a text when he came back from his bath. All of the showers in the gym were taken when he and Paul had finished their game and He desperately needed to get rid the "i've just come back from the gym" feeling before he dealt with the older Holmes brother.

John came out of the bathroom, hair still wet, to find Sherlock sitting exactly where he had left him, only there was now a shop window dummy hanging from a noose attached to the ceiling. He sat down in his chair, the dummy gently creaking behind him, to catch up on the news. Despite the advent of twitter and online newspapers, John still preferred to catch up with what was going on in the world in print. One of the few memories he had of his father before he died was of him reading the paper on the kitchen table before leaving for work. Reading the paper was a link to his Dad, and a reminder of a Watson family that was not so broken.

As he settled down Sherlock's phone sounded off again. Behind him a mild expression of irritation crossed Sherlock's face. He knew Mycroft was calling and he couldn't be bothered to answer. Mycroft was trying to get him to do something or other he was sure. Probably to do with his parents. He vaguely recalled them saying that they had won three tickets to go to an opening of a new National Trust property. His mother had apologised that she had given the spare to Mycroft but she felt that it was…"More of his sort of thing. You've never really been one for those grand old houses have you?". She had then gone on with a lecture reminding him to call her more often but by then Sherlock had mentally put her on mute. Unfortunately Mycroft didn't really think the opening of a National Trust property and the obligatory mingling that would follow was his sort of thing either and had been desperately trying to get out of it ever since. The constant bleeping of Sherlock's phone in the living room was probably something to do with that.

As Sherlock continued apparently oblivious to the ringing phone John decided to take action. Looking at the phone his heart sunk. As he walked over to him Sherlock urged John not to disturb him. He was busy. But unfortunately John did say something and it was not anything that Sherlock wanted to hear. Moriarty was back.

—

Following Moriarty's theatrics and Sherlock's temporary incarceration, the trail came and went. Moriarty walked free. And walked straight to 221b Baker Street.

—

"If you could break any bank, what do you care about the highest bidder?"

"I don't. I just like to watch them all competing. "Daddy loves _me_ the best!" Aren't ordinary people adorable? Well, you know: you've got John. I should get myself a live-in one."

—

Following their brief conversation Sherlock pulled back the curtain to see Moriarty enter a chauffeur driven black Aston Martin DB7. That's the sort of thing Mycroft would do; own an inordinately expensive, luxurious and sought after car and yet get someone else to drive it. It made no sense to Sherlock. Mycroft had more in common with Moriarty than he would like to think. Sherlock smiled and left to go and raid Mrs Hudson's fridge.

As the car pulled away from the pavement, Moriarty took out his phone, put his feet up on the dashboard and hit speed dial 5. It was time he got his own live in ordinary person. And he knew exactly who to call. Chewing a stick of gum and resting his head on the car window Moriarty watched the grey buildings of London glide past the window as he waited for his old acquaintance and new friend to pick up the phone. When he did a slight grin crossed his face,

"Sebastian, darling, how I have missed you"


	3. Chapter 3

**Hello! Welcome to a background chapter and a new character. Might seem a little random at the moment but will make more sense later on I promise! Hope you are all having great days, A :) **

Sebastian had never really been popular with anyone so when the world's greatest consulting criminal phoned to ask him to move in, he was both surprised and scared. But also a little touched. He had only spoken to the man for all of five minutes roughly two years ago. He must have made an impression. Not bad going really. Sebastian had wasted no time in taking Moriarty up on his offer. Especially as he was going to be paid for the occasional bit of work. He played cards in the evening to supplement his work as a freelancer but the two combined were barely paying the rent. He was talented in both arenas. He just needed people to realise it. Especially his brother. Sebastian's volatile mood swings driven in equal measure by frustration, anger, guilt and fear had caused him on more than one occasion to harm himself after one intolerable nightmare too many. What followed was a period of remorse and self-loathing at his own 'weakness' which rendered him unable to do very much at all.

Sebastian's "instability", as his father had put it, had lead to him having to live with his older brother Christopher in order to receive financial support from his parents. He was kept very much under Christopher's thumb in the belief that spending time with his older brother would set him back on the straight and narrow. In reality the constant comparisons between himself and his older brother were now more frustrating than ever. Christopher was a tall, blonde, powerfully built man who by most accounts was more than just a little handsome. His blue eyes and Hollywood smile had lead to a string of girlfriends and immense popularity. The world, it seemed to Sebastian, was a very shallow place. Recently Christopher's philandering days had seemingly come to an end and he had settled down. He had had the same girlfriend, Sienna, now for a little over a year. She, like Christopher, was perfect. He worked in banking whilst she worked in PR. They both earned a lot of money and knew how to spend it. A match made in heaven surely.

Christopher had an ease with people that Sebastian never had. He always found himself feeling awkward and inadequate next to Christopher. Like Christopher he was tall, but he was also skinny. Christopher jokingly called him a "bean pole" when he first moved in. Sebastian was desperate to point out that he was actually quite strong its just that his strength didn't manifest itself in bulging muscles. As if to prove his point he began running again and lifting weights. With his sleek black hair, green eyes and lean frame, in his opinion, he would never look like the greek god that was Christopher but he had to prove to him that he could still outrun him if he ever needed to. Much to Sebastian's relief the feelings that had so recently driven him to recklessness were now being dealt with through sport. He begrudgingly admitted to himself that he probably wouldn't be so active if he didn't have to walk into the kitchen to see a shirtless Christopher every morning. His parents had picked up on this improvement as well and his mother kept on commenting on how 'well' he was looking, whatever that meant. But that didn't mean he was completely free of problems. Lately Sebastian's mother had developed a nasty habit of asking when exactly it was that he was going to find himself someone while his father kept telling him to 'be a man' and toughen up as no girl would want to marry a man who still cried out at night after a nightmare, nearly three years after the event.

That evening when Christopher came back from the office he wouldn't be greeted by Sebastian playing poker on the iPad but rather a note on the kitchen island explaining his absence. As Sebastian rode away from the flat on his racing bicycle towards Moriarty, he felt a sense of relief that he hadn't felt since the last time this man had swept in and turned his life around.

—

Living with Moriarty was not what Sebastian imagined it to be like. For a start he requested that Sebastian call him Jamie. After all, its what his "nearest and dearest" called him. Sebastian lived in a separate wing of the apartment and was pretty much allowed free reign but Jamie insisted that they have dinner together on Friday nights and that they took it in turns with the trips to Waitrose. It was all oddly domestic. He'd even met Jamie's rather extensive family. Sebastian was only called upon twice to do some work for Jamie but other than that he was able to freelance. It was quite refreshing really. Jaime's pay meant that a weight was lifted off his shoulders. If he didn't get so much work one week, no big deal. Sebastian had called Jamie out on this once and asked if he could do anymore work for him. It didn't seem fair to be doing so little but receiving so much. Jamie replied that he would rather Sebastian act as ordinary as possible.

Part of acting as ordinary as possible even extended to having a girlfriend. He thought it might be a problem what with Jamie being who he was but Jamie was surprisingly OK with having another person swan in and out of the apartment. Sebastian had met Jo through his freelance work. At the end of the job everyone involved who had made it to the end was invited by the main contractor to cocktails in a high end club whose prices made Sebastian's eyes water. It was a surprise outing so almost everyone was dressed entirely inappropriately but no-one seemed to mind very much. Roughly ten minutes in Sebastian was ready to go home. But he stuck it out. He never really contributed much to the conversation but he nodded in all the right places. He hoped. As the night wore on and the company got progressively drunker, they decided to move onto another club. Sebastian, who was now thoroughly sober, decided it was time to call it quits. As did Jo. As she said her goodbyes and was hugged by everyone and told what a lifesaver she was, she replied politely that she probably didn't deserve such praise. The rest of the group insisted that she did. As one member was slurring his way through an offer to walk her home Jo's gaze caught Sebastian's.

"Thank you for the offer Lucas but Sebastian is walking me back I think" This statement was followed by a fair bit of harmless catcalling which Jo easily smiled off. Sebastian looked a little taken aback, but relieved nonetheless. As the pair began to walk out he murmured his thanks in her ear. They had just about made it to the door when Sebastian's name was called by a voice he wasn't too pleased to hear. Christopher's booming tone carried across the club as he strutted towards Sebastian, flanked by two girls, neither of whom were his girlfriend.

"Sebastian! My darling brother. See you haven't killed yourself then" Sebastian reluctantly turned round, his snarky tone that he had no cause to use over the past few weeks making a return,

"Evidently not" Sebastian's hands were balled into fists. Christopher sniggered and looked his younger brother up and down before turning his gaze to Jo who was stood a little behind him.

"See you're about to get laid though" he turned to talk to Jo "Listen, you look like a nice person, so I'm going to warn you now. This boy is more trouble than he's worth. You'll invest time and money in him and what do you get in return? Nothing. Well actually that's not quite true. What you get is a moody sod who cries at night and slits his wrists every now and then for attention" Christopher smirked at his own joke whilst Jo looked completely impassive, as though she heard this sort of outburst everyday. Stepping forward next to Sebastian, who was now looking translucent, she pulled her phone out of her jeans pocket and much to Sebastian's surprise began a conversation with his brother;

"Sorry, I didn't catch your name?" She smiled at him in her usual disarming manner. Apparently thinking that he had managed to pull Sebastian's date away from him, Christopher lent in and kissed her lightly on the cheek before replying;

"Christopher. I actually make decent money in banking, unlike my brother. Might be worth coming over to the side of the man who made over fifty million today. And what's your name?"

"Jo" She then started tapping on her iPhone, the screen dimmed so that neither Sebastian nor Christopher could see what she was doing. Before Christopher could try and seduce Jo any further Sebastian stepped in;

"Well, I can't say it was nice seeing you but we really must be going, Jo?" Jo was now holding up her iPhone mumbling something about signal. She stopped and asked the names of the two girls accompanying Christopher and offered them a pleasant goodbye and wished them a lovely evening. Sebastian thought she was going to ignore Christopher, which Sebastian would have loved, but she didn't.

"Well, nice meeting you Christopher. Sienna says hello by the way" The pair left a dumbfounded Christopher standing by the bar with the two women and walked out into the London night air. Sebastian was livid. He closed in on himself and was about to let the barriers close completely around him when he stopped himself;

"You know Sienna?" He hadn't meant the question to come out with such venom but it had done. He instantly wanted to rewind back and not turn around to face Christopher, then he might have been in with a shot at having a decent conversation with Jo, someone who he had secretly admired from afar for some time after holding open a door for her on her first day. It was soft of him he knew and he slightly wished he'd snap out of it.

"No I don't. Didn't even know you had a brother until about five minutes ago" Sebastian looked puzzled "After he was not particularly pleasant to you, to put it mildly, I asked him his name and looked him up on Facebook. Wifi in these places is a godsend. Found out he was in a relationship with someone called Sienna. Took a look at the two girls. Deduced that neither of them was Sienna. And there you go. Think he is a bit scared don't you?" Sebastian was still looking bemused "And if you want, only if you want mind, a picture of Christopher flanked by two said girls, may find its way into Sienna's phone from an unknown number" Jo passed her iPhone to Sebastian and there was indeed on it a picture of Christopher and the women "I wasn't looking for signal Sebastian. Anyone knows that if you're looking for signal you hold the damn phone against your head"

Sebastian handed the iPhone back to Jo, his hands shaking. She took the phone back off him and pocketed it.

"Why did you do that? Why stand up for me? You barely know me?" He was trying to keep his tone as even as possible but he was treading a dangerous emotional line between elation and fear and he didn't really want to let it show. Jo merely shrugged.

"You've always seemed like a nice guy. Seriously. Ask Kristin. I've said you were nice from day one. He, on the other hand, seemed like a jerk. Plus the fact I know you're a true gentlemen"

"I don't think true gentlemen 'cry at night and slit their wrists' though do you?" Sebastian mimicked his brother before his face returned to flint once more. Jo looked across at Sebastian

"Oh I don't know. True gentlemen defiantly don't cheat on their girlfriends. But they do hold open doors"

Sebastian slowly smiled at Jo who returned with a grin. As they walked past a rowdy couple of pubs Sebastian slung his arm around Jo's shoulder and as the two made a dash across the road she lifted her hand up to meet his, the other snaking around his waist. Once the two reached the other side they remained that way, either not noticing or caring as they talked about anything that came to mind, laughing easily as they did.

—

When Jo was not freelancing she worked as a relief worker for a large charity which made Sebastian wonder why on earth she was even remotely interested in someone as complicated as him. Surely when you had been working with people in desperate situations, you would not want to come home to someone as broken as Sebastian. He was still struggling to recover from his short spell in Helmand and would frequently wake up calling out in terror at a nightmare, or more often, a memory. When this happened and Jo was with him, she was patient and caring without an ounce of judgement. Sebastian felt more relaxed than he ever had been in her presence, although always slightly wary that one day she would wake up and realise that she didn't love him anymore. These thoughts particularly plagued him whilst she was abroad working.

Usually when she returned home Jo would fall into his arms, rather literally, but she never showed any indication that she found her work, or indeed Sebastian, a strain. However this time something was different. Her usually bright, optimistic demeanour was somewhat subdued. Things came to a head four days later following the wedding of one of their co-workers on the project where they had met. Jo had looked lovely, she always did. He had donned a suit for the occasion which had turned a few heads. It seemed he brushed up well. Throughout the service the two sat with their hands entwined, Sebastian gently running his thumb along the back of her hand. But Jo was clearly somewhere else. She looked like she wanted to be anywhere but next to him. During the reception they had made polite conversation with each other and those around them. She even cracked a smile at his ridiculous dancing that he only ever seemed to bring out when he was a little drunk. As they headed back to the hotel, and left alone with Sebastian, Jo withdrew once more. While they got ready for bed, Sebastian felt that he could wait until morning to hear the worst. He would have one more night with her by his side before she left. But as she appeared in the bathroom doorway, he lost all resolve. He needed to know. It was cruel to linger in such agony.

"Jo?" Sebastian's voice shook as she turned to him and he was shocked by just how tired she looked "Do you not want to be with me anymore? Because the last thing I want to do is make you unhappy" Instead of offering a response Jo bowed her head and Sebastian felt like he was going to be sick. She exhaled and looked up, her green eyes locking onto his;

"Bas, the last thing that you could do is make me unhappy"

—

Sebastian awoke at four in the morning as his body was undergoing the mass destruction of the alcohol it had consumed the previous day. He moved to try and untangle himself from Jo when he realised that she wasn't there. Sitting bolt upright he scanned the room for her. Turning on the light he saw that her glasses were still on the bed stand but her iPhone had gone. He got up and checked the bathroom. She wasn't in there either. Getting worried now he quickly found a t-shirt and pyjama bottoms. Grabbing his phone and keys he headed out the door and was about to call Jo when he stopped. There she was dressed in a pair of his boxers and her favourite old t-shirt doing pushups on the corridor floor. When he had whispered her name Jo had continued on, almost in a trance. As he approached her he saw the small white earbuds of the new iPhone he had got her on her return. Still apparently not noticing Sebastian, Jo switched to using only one hand. She tucked her left hand behind her back and continued on. Sebastian knew she was strong but he was now both impressed and a little worried. Tentatively he crouched down and lightly touched her left hand on her back. The result was instantaneous. Jo sprung up, the headphones breaking loose as the iPhone clattered to the floor. Her eyes were focussed as if ready to run. She had gone into flight or fight mode. She had gone somewhere else. Sebastian stood up slowly, reaching out to her to try and anchor her back to England, back to him rather than the hell on earth from which she had just come from. It took a moment but Jo's eyes softened and Sebastian pulled her into a hug. She latched onto him, taking shuddering breaths but never shedding a tear. Although he ached to see her unhappy, it was nice to be able to offer comfort instead of just receiving it.

—

After that night things changed. Jo had told Sebastian what had happened in Afghanistan, what she had witnessed. Sebastian shared her fury over what had happened but also her fear. When she had been asked to go back to Afghanistan to assess some new infrastructure for water provision for a two weeks, Sebastian was reluctant to let her go. He wanted to know that she was safe. What was more was that he didn't want her to take any unnecessary risk. But she did go and when she was away he worried almost constantly. Jamie picked up on this and probed Sebastian for why exactly it was that he seemed so distant. Sebastian had just finished another of Jamie's jobs for him and as he received his cash in hand he sat down and told Jamie Jo's story. When he had finished Jamie said nothing and pulled out his iPhone. He tapped out a text and was about to press send when he stopped and looked at Sebastian squarely in the eye:

"I can stop this but you must promise to do something for me in return" Sebastian was instantly suspicious. What more could he do for Jamie that he wasn't doing already? "There is a very important job that I need you to do in the future. I don't know when exactly it will be but I need you to promise that you will do it. Do I have your word?"

"What is it?" Sebastian would do anything for Jo, but that didn't stop him feeling a little nervous about what Jamie's response would be.

"The usual" Jamie's simple reply caught Sebastian off guard. If was anything as routine as he was doing now then why the cloak and dagger attitude?

"Who is it Jamie?"

"Oh you haven't seen him in many years but I'm sure you'll know him when you do. And I don't think you'll be too sorry to see him go" Jamie's eyes flashed with something dangerous. It was the same look that had drawn Sebastian to Jamie when he was in hiding. Jamie was a powerful man. He was changeable but he never failed on a promise. Not a big promise like this one anyway. Sebastian held out his hand to shake Jamie's;

"You have my word" Jamie pressed send and proceeded to put his coat and sunglasses on. As he left the flat he called back to Sebastian to remember to pick up some soya milk. Sebastian smiled to himself thinking about how bizarre Jamie's life was. In one breath he was ordering executions and in another he was ordering milk for his lactose intolerant mother who was staying over the weekend.

—

Since living with Jamie, Sebastian's work had slowly but surely been gathering more and more attention. He was getting offers for work all over the capital and even in America. In just eight days time he would be heading off to New York to work with some of the best in the business. Although Jamie would never admit to it, Sebastian knew that he had had some influence on this. But he didn't care. He was getting paid to do what he loved. And his portfolio of work was more than impressive. What was even better was that Jo was coming with him. After his work was done today he was going to go to Heathrow to meet her. Sebastian had two shoots today at either ends of London. He had Jamie's cars at his disposal but he preferred his bike. He loaded up his messenger bag with his equipment and left the apartment. His, and now Jo's, own private space. No more sharing with Christopher. No more talking behind his back. No more feeling like he was second best. No one telling him that he was second best. Not for the first time in his life, Sebastian had been singled out. But this time, it felt amazing.

—

John was slowly getting more and more irritated. He didn't mind Sherlock commandeering the kitchen and reorganising everything in the living room, but what he did object to was him coming into John's private space and taking whatever it was that he wanted before disappearing off to Mycroft. He took his holdall downstairs and was about to start rifling through the store cupboard when Sherlock walked in through the door eating a bag of chips.

"How was Mycroft?" John asked. Sherlock shrugged. "You've been spending an awful lot of time with him lately"

"He is my brother" Sherlock managed to get out through a full mouth of food. John was about to reprimand him when he stopped himself. He was turning into Mrs Hudson.

"Yes…that's why I think its odd. Anything going on that I should know about?" John leant back on his heels peering around the cupboard door. Sherlock was still more interested in stuffing his face than having a polite conversation with him it would seem.

"Nothing that you would understand. What are you looking for anyway?" Sherlock ambled over to John who had now stood up holding his gym bag in one had and trying to hide his mild annoyance at Sherlock's patronising assertion.

'My squash kit. Have you seen it?" Sherlock looked puzzled and jabbed his wooden fork down to the holdall.

'It's in your hand…" John was older than him but Sherlock hadn't counted on the old-age forgetfulness to kick in quite yet. John rolled his eyes. He had had a bad day at work and was going to be late for Paul. Sherlock's general arsey attitude was not helping.

"No…I mean I ordered a new set of balls and I can't find them anywhere. I'm going to play with Paul tonight and I kind of need them. You aren't doing some hideous experiment with them are you?" John barrelled past Sherlock and began the ascent to their flat. Sherlock followed him, practically bounding up the stairs.

"Nothing that you won't appreciate in time to come John." John raised his eyes skyward. There were some days when he really did want a best friend that had boundaries and a sense of common decency.

"For god's sake Sherlock. You owe me nine quid." Sherlock looked blank and then shovelled another forkful of chips into his mouth.

"I think I owe you a bit more than that" He murmured. John spun round and for a moment he looked alarmingly like Mrs Hudson. Sherlock hoped to god he hadn't heard what he'd just said.

"What was that? Don't talk while you eating."

"I said I've got a case more interesting than that. Squash I mean." Sherlock looked oddly sheepish, John frowning at him.

"You just said…never mind. What is it then?" Sherlock perked up again, eager to have John back on his side.

"How would you like to save a life rather than solving a murder?"

John put his bag down. Squash could wait. He was starting to remember why it was so hard to maintain normal friendships when living with Sherlock.

"Err…yes. Whose life are we saving?"

"No idea"

"Okay…do you know when this might happen? Or where?"

"No to the first and potentially maybe to the second"

"Not a lot to go on really"

"No" Sherlock thrust the bag under John's nose "Chip?"


	4. Chapter 4

Sherlock and John had been on this case for over a week now. Progress was painfully slow but they had picked up a few leads. They knew that the person going to be killed was likely the curator of a museum and Sherlock had managed to work out that they were allergic to pulses and wasn't a fan of crowds. John was beginning to get frustrated. He'd given up a game of squash with Paul for this. Reasoning with Sherlock hadn't really worked up until now but he decided to give it a go.

"Look, maybe this is one of the cases that we don't solve. Why not just hand it over to Mycroft or, slightly more conventionally, the police, and they can deal with it". Sherlock jumped down from the couch where he had been examining an ever increasing collection of 'clues' pinned to the wall.

"It was Mycroft who gave it to me. Said he got intelligence from a man he was dealing with earlier in the year. He wouldn't tell him much. Mycroft probably couldn't solve it so handed it over to me. He's losing his ability to deduce so rapidly in his old age"

"And apparently you are too. Can we please do something else?" Sherlock looked momentarily annoyed before kicking his shoes off and lying on the couch and placing his hands in a prayer position. He closed is eyes and John thought that he had gone to sleep before he snapped his eyes open and twisting his head at what looked like a very uncomfortable angle to face John.

"What do you suggest then? Monopoly?" Sherlock questioned, daring John to challenge him.

"Err no…how about putting your shoes somewhere that neither of us will fall—" John stopped. Just out of sight under the couch behind Sherlock's shoes was the box of photos that John had discarded there over a month ago. Suddenly he had an idea…

"OK, then you want a case? Here's one. There's a photographer who is shot right down the lens in the middle of—" John was stopped again. But this time by Sherlock shouting and leaping up into the air onto the coffee table.

"How could I have been so stupid? It was staring at us right in the face" John was looking bewildered. 'Well its not staring into my face' he thought.

"Don't you see John?! This curator will be looking to acquire pieces for their collection. We know the attack is going to happen before the end of the month. What is the only new exhibition opening between now and the 30th?" Sherlock looked at John expectantly as the latter was attempting to quickly recall his limited contemporary cultural knowledge.

"The photography exhibition at the Tate Modern...its been all over the papers…whose is it again?"

"Wesener and Moran. We need to get tickets to the preview tomorrow night"

"Why the preview?"

"The curator doesn't like crowds remember. It'll be exclusive a few guests and…"

"Interested buyers". John smiled to himself as Sherlock called Myrcoft. It seems that his skills as a great 'conductor of light' were continuing to be useful.

"Brother dear, remember when you said I should get out more? How about securing me and John tickets to the Wesener and Moran exhibition preview tomorrow night?"

**—**

The Tate Modern was one of those places that John had never really taken an interest in. Art wasn't really his sort of thing. Especially not modern art. Sherlock, however, was another story. There had always been paintings littered about his house growing up. He liked to read them. Find the hidden messages and symbols. Modern art was a little trickier, but Sherlock liked a challenge. Photography was a new area for him though. Aside from its use in forensics he'd never had the reason to retain any useful amount of interest or knowledge about the subject. Until yesterday that was when the situation was rectified after just half an hour's reading and research.

Sherlock ordered their cab to St Paul's Cathedral. The City was still bustling at 7 o'clock at night. Most would be in their offices for a long while yet. As Sherlock got out of the cab he turned is collar up to the wind. John smirked and felt a little reassured. Sherlock only ever did this when he felt that they were onto something good. When he felt that he was in control.

The two began the descent down from St Paul's and onto the Millennium Bridge, the chimney of the Tate Modern towering ahead of them.

"Go on then" John started, ramming his hands into his pockets, "What have you worked out that you're not telling me?"

"This is a brand new collaboration. These two photographers have never worked together before. Wesener is old school. Still shoots on film. Moran is digital. And only digital. The two fit together perfectly though. They focus on people. Particularly young people and children. However, for this exhibition the focus is on heroism. Who do we hold to be above all others? Who do we follow and look up to?" Sherlock and John slowed to a standstill in the middle of the bridge. Sherlock crossed over to the left hand side and leant against the rail. John joined him and the two looked out towards Tower Bridge. "For Wesener, his heroes were artists. He's been around for years. It will be interesting to see whose heroes are Moran's"

"Where is this going Sherlock?"

"I've narrowed it down to two possible targets. One is a curator for an auction house with links to a charity that aims to improve education for girls in Afghanistan. The other is a private collector. At the moment, I'm pretty sure its the private collector. Her name is Erika Sorensen. No one has heard of her, yet she is phenomenally wealthy. Hardly goes to any events except for the exceptional. Her family isn't rich so that money must have come from somewhere. She's not tied to any major company. She isn't married to anyone who is so…plenty of opportunity for behaviour that would mean that someone may want you out of the picture. Excuse the pun."

"And is she allergic to pulses?"

"Didn't you hear what I just said? She never goes out. How am I meant to gather an accurate pattern of her eating habits?"

"And is charity guy allergic?"

"Yes. He dined at a private function last week which had to change its starter from lentil soup to a much less anaphylactic shock inducing tomato"

"And his name?"

"Thomas Ianus. Italian father, english mother. Two older sisters who used to dress him up as Madonna in his youth. Now lives alone since he found out that his girlfriend was in fact -"

"I just asked for the name Sherlock. Come on, lets get going" John turned on his heel and walked towards the Tate.

"I thought you liked it when I showed off" Sherlock muttered. He watched as John walked ahead and wondered how much longer the two of them had together. Moriarty was coming.

The city looked particularly beautiful tonight. He turned to look at St Paul's. This was his mother's favourite part of London standing on the bridge between the two sides of the city with that stunning view of the great white monolith of St Paul's.

A gust of wind whipped around Sherlock as he turned to follow John. He ducked his head down against it and shoved his hands into his pockets. His right hand played with the squash ball he had taken from John's new set. He'd forgotten he'd left it in there.

—

Sherlock and John entered the Tate Modern on the river side and started their ascent up to the third floor. As they reached the top of the escalators they passed through security checkpoints. John was suddenly very glad that he'd left his gun in the top drawer. Their coats were taken and in exchange they were given guidebooks to the exhibition and a price list. Sherlock tucked the two into his suit's jacket pocket before turning to John,

"I'm going to go ahead. I need to properly look at the space before many more people arrive. Judging by the cloakroom only half of the guests are already here. Text me if you need me". Sherlock turned to leave but was stopped by John grabbing his arm. He looked down puzzled at his friend's hand, somewhat unused to the physical contact.

"Sherlock, just wait a minute" his voice hushed "What's the plan? Are you just going to walk up to a total stranger and say 'hi, you don't know me but I'm here to tell you that you may very well be murdered tonight?"

"Probably yeah. Can you let go of my arm?" John dropped his hand and sighed.

"All I'm saying, smart arse, is that you actually don't have a lot to go on and it may be worth giving this a little consideration before you go barreling in. You don't even know why or how they are going to be killed. You're not even entirely sure who"

"Admittedly I'm still working on that bit but I won't be able to get any further with us having what Mrs Hudson has charmingly labelled 'one of our domestics' in the middle of perhaps one of the greatest photography exhibitions of this year, probably the decade -"

"Alright just go Sherlock. I'll just take my time"

Sherlock grinned and almost bounded off around the corner. John followed him and was about to call that such movement in this sort of environment would probably draw suspicion when he stopped and found himself staring straight into the dull blue eyes of a man he'd really rather forget about.

John felt an overpowering need to move. To run. To follow Sherlock. But his leg gave way.

"Please god, not now" he thought before he found himself leaning heavily on the white wall behind him with the green eyes of Private Moran moving ever so swiftly and silently towards him.

—

Sherlock's mind was racing. He needed to find the targets and, as John so rightly pointed out, he needed to work out who was after them and how they were going to get rid of them. This was by far one of the most challenging cases he'd had in a while. He could see why Mycroft didn't want it. He really must ask him who his source was.

The gallery had been beautifully laid out. The pictures were all in thin black frames and somehow seemed to draw even more out of the photos. They really did look stunning. As he entered the main gallery he saw Wesener stood in the middle of the room. The older man turned as Sherlock entered and walked towards him. Despite the thirty plus years that he had spent in New York, he had retained his German accent.

"Sherlock? Yes? I remember taking a photo of your brother. Most powerful man in Britain. I shall be taking one of you shortly no? Now that you are a famous detective." Wesener grinned as he shook Sherlock's hand. Behind his rimless spectacles his eyes had retained their youth.

"Mr Wesner -

"Please, call me Wolfie. Your brother did" Sherlock could never imagine Myrcoft calling anyone by a nickname but he decided to go with it

"Wolfie, thank you for agreeing to have us on the guest list so late"

"Oh it is nothing"

The two had begun to walk towards the main photograph in the space. It was of Wolfie's father surveying the world through is round tortoiseshell glasses. As they came closer a smell that Sherlock couldn't quite put his finger on appeared. Sherlock wrinkled his nose

"Yes, sorry about that. It should be gone within a moment. You get used to it. There was a delay with the installation of the photos, you know how these things are. The frames have been treated with something to protect them and I don't think its quite dried. I don't really know, I didn't really follow it. They did try and tell me. The photo is what I am really concerned about. The framing doesn't really matter to me. Seb chose the frames."

Wolfie went back to looking at the picture of his father. The two stood there looking at the old man as Sherlock weighed up the positives and negatives of diving in to an investigation head first. After about thirty seconds Sherlock was bored and decided to go for it. Politeness be damned.

"I'm looking for Erika Sorensen-"

Before he could continue Wolfie had spun one hundred and eighty degrees on his heels and was now facing into the middle of the gallery.

"Ah, the lottery winner. Although don't tell anyone that. She's over by Seb's picture there" Wesener pointed at a middle aged woman stood in front of a portrait of Barack Obama. Sherlock's mind went into overdrive as he began his deductions;

Erika Johanna Sorensen. Just shy of her 48th birthday. One daughter but the father has custody. She never shed the baby weight yet she doesn't look like she spends her days running round after an irrational creature who believes that walls are the perfect place to draw on. She has never done the after school run to dancing or sat patiently through yet another nativity play on an impossibly uncomfortable and small plastic chair. She just hasn't. So, what does she do then? Why does the father have custody? Is she working in a dangerous profession? Could this be why someone wants her dead? No. She is a horticulturalist. Working with rare plants. The skin on her hands is dry with tiny scars which could only be obtained through close contact with thorns. Her eyes look worn as well. Too much time examining small objects closely. Her skin too bears the marks of someone who has spent a long time in the sun. But it is also rough, so windburn. This all points to the fact that not only does her work involve practical elements but also close study working with plants on a regular basis. So that's her job. Who would want to kill someone who spend most of their days covered in John Innes Number 5? Wait, Wolfie said something about the lottery. Obvious really once you look at her. The way that she is dressed, expensive clothing but she doesn't seem comfortable in it. She has money but she's not used to it. At least not in this amount. And it must be a large amount because tickets to these previews are not cheap and the cost of the photos alone is eye watering. She's wearing a thin strapped Rolex watch, the tan lines of a much bulkier watch visible beneath it. Back to the outdoors work again. However, on her right wrist is a much cheaper bracelet. Couldn't be anything over £30 in worth. Why wear it then? A reminder of the old times? Yes. Its engraved with the shield of her college at Cambridge. Newnham. She has more money than she knows what to do with yet she still clings onto cheaper, and arguably quite tacky, trophies of her golden years. When she was free from husbands and children and could focus on her studies. Lottery winner then. Reasons why anyone would want her killed? None. All the money will be willed to the daughter and a woman this intelligent would make sure that the will was airtight. No room for her child's father to get hold of it. Any other activities that could put her in the firing line? Gambling? No. Trading, legal or otherwise? No. Black mail? No, she's too busy working. We've already established that. No motive. Random killing? Unlikely. Why would a random killing be planned in advance. Mycroft's source knew that someone would be killed. Killing Erika Sorensen would be a spur of the moment affair. She is too unimportant.

Sherlock had zoned out and Wolfie was now looking concerned. He took his glasses off and cleaned them on the bottom of his waistcoat.

"Sherlock, you're not here because you think she is going to be killed are you?"

Sherlock sighed.

"No, Wolfie. I don't think she is going to be killed. It would have made my evening a lot easier if she was though. Now I need to find the other one"

—

Private Moran was as softly spoken as ever as he guided John to one of the wooden benches in middle of the gallery. His hands were steady. Gentle yet firm. He sat down next to John, stretching out his long legs. John had forgotten how tall he was. He was probably taller than Sherlock. Moran turned to look at John but resolutely kept his head down,

"I didn't know you were a fan of my work Captain" Moran's voice was calm, almost cold. Any of the quiet reserve he had only moments ago was slowly giving way to something much more sinister. And why shouldn't it, after what John had done. After what they had all done. John flexed his hand as he felt the tremor starting. He was still looking at his knees. Drawing a deep breath he faced forward and answered Moran,

"I honestly didn't know that you were doing this. I'd seen sections about this exhibition in the paper but I never really read them. I didn't think you'd be into photography so I didn't for a second think that you would be one half of Wesener and Moran. It's a common name." John let go a breath he wasn't aware he was holding. He kept his eyes fixed on the picture of Jim Lovell hung on the wall in front of him. He couldn't look at the man next to him. Private Moran stood up and looked down at John.

"Well, what can I say? Here I am, back to haunt you like a bad omen. I hope you enjoy the evening Captain" John could see Moran's feet directly in front of him. Somehow he mustered the courage to raise his head and look at his former inferior.

"Please don't call me Captain. My name's John. Neither of us are in Helmand now Sebastian" Sebastian's faced hardened, and his green eyes seemed to fade into black.

"No we're not John. But we both have marks to prove that we were"

As Sebastian turned to walk away, a small circular scar became visible on the righthand side of his temple, just under a lock of black hair, and John felt the overwhelming need to vomit.


	5. Chapter 5

Sherlock needed to find Ianus. The exhibition was beginning to fill up with the remaining guests. His time was running out. He still didn't know how Ianus was going to die or even who was going to kill him, never mind why. Sherlock's eyes were frantically darting around the room trying to find the Anglo-Italian businessman and philanthropist. He needed to slow down. He needed to think. Just think.

Sherlock's mind palace opened up in front of him. This time he was in the library of Magdalene College, Cambridge. This was part of his days before John. His days before the beginning of a downward spiral of self destruction. The calm before the storm. Sherlock glided down to the tunnel running between the left and the right cloister of the library. He ducked down to pass through the low baring doorway and entered a much loftier space. The tunnel was surprisingly light with bookcases arranged to form private reading spaces. He sat down in his favourite corner, the one where he powered through his Chemistry examples papers over a decade ago and pulled out a book in front of him entitled "London Auction Houses Owners with Allergies". This is where he kept his information on Thomas Ianus. The man whose life he was surely about to save.

Thomas Ianus. Born 4th October 1978, London, England. Harrow then Cambridge. Privileged then. Family are of some wealth. Could his death have something to do with this? His father drove hard bargains in his business deals but would they drive someone to murder his son in what has turned out to be a very light, open, air conditioned and increasingly busy space? Potentially. Keep that in mind. What about Ianus' own work? Auction house owner. Could sell smuggled goods. Could sell stolen goods. Could be a fraud. Could be selling fakes. The possibilities are endless. So, likely to be something to do with this. Just to be thorough, better look at his charitable works. He runs a series of sch—

Sherlock was pulled very abruptly out of the tunnel of the library and into the Tate Modern as someone clapped a firm hand on his back. The world pulled back into focus. Wolfie.

"Sherlock" he began, his tone concerned as he pushed his glasses up his nose "Your partner doesn't look too well. Bas was looking after him before but I think you should go and check on him. He's looking a bit off…"

Sherlock was about to berate Wolfie for his unhelpful interruption when he caught sight of John over his shoulder. He was sat on one of the wooden benches in the middle of the main gallery space, his hands clasped together and although his head was angled down, Sherlock could see a sheen of sweat visible on his forehead. John looked grey. He'd only ever seen John look like this once before. Sherlock had stayed up to work on a case in the living room, working only by lamplight. He heard a shout coming from John's bedroom and was about to go and investigate when he heard John shuffle towards the door. He listened as John walked, no limped, towards the kitchen. It must have been a nightmare. Probably about the war. Best to keep a distance then. Sherlock struggled with empathy, although he was making a concerted effort to get night John had flicked on the kitchen light unaware that Sherlock was observing him, concealed in the near darkness of the room next door. Using the edge of the table for support he made is way to the sink. Hands trembling he turned on the cold water tap and watched the water run for a couple of minutes before plunging his hands under the flow. He brought his ashen face closer to the sink and splashed water onto it. John stayed hunched over the sink. He slowly straightened up and reached for a glass and filled it with water. As he drank he turned slightly and Sherlock got a clearer look at John. He looked haunted. Damaged. John never looked like that when Sherlock was there. Sherlock knew John missed the excitement and thrill of war. He had never really thought about the long term emotional impact. He suddenly felt a pang of something in his chest, the effect of which Sherlock couldn't quite articulate. Its funny, Sherlock thought, that we hide what we really feel from those we are closest to. After all they are, more often than not, those who are most willing and able to help.

Sherlock pulled himself back into the present. John was looking damaged again and Sherlock felt uneasy.

"Thank you Wolfie" he muttered before walking towards John, his pace quickening as he drew nearer. Something wasn't right.

"John" he said tentatively, not quite sure what to do with his hands. Should he reach out to his friend? Touch him on the shoulder? Offer some kind of support? In the end he settled for holding his hands behind his back. John looked up to see Sherlock leaning over him.

"I need to go" he managed to croak out. His mouth has suddenly become very dry "I just need to get out of here for a bit". John slowly stood up, trying to ignore the dull throb in his leg.

"What happened John? Was it Moriarty?" Sherlock sounded like he was genuinely concerned which took John slightly aback.

"No. God no. Nothing like that. It was someone…who…army…someone"

Before Sherlock could ask anything else John had turned away and was making his way towards the escalators. Nothing serious then. Sherlock felt a wave of relief come over him. Just an emotional response to a face from the past. Human nature and its many faults. Now was not the time to be distracted by such trivialities. There was a task at hand.

—

John made it out onto the South Bank, which in his mind was a minor miracle. Leaning heavily against the railings be took in the most refreshing breath of London air he had ever taken. As he looked out onto the north side of the city his initial unease at seeing Sebastian was replaced by frustration. He should have kept his cool. Not let him affect him so much. He was a higher rank than Sebastian. Rationally he should hold no sway over him.

John rubbed his leg. He needed his gun. He just wanted the security of it. He walked down towards the Globe and hailed a cab. He felt mildly guilty about leaving Sherlock on his own but he was sure he would cope.

Pulling up outside 221b, John told the cab driver to wait. He went up to his bedroom and located his gun. He holstered it in his belt and turned back down to head over to the Tate Modern once more. He would face this. He had to. He couldn't hide from his past forever. Sherlock might need him.

As he sat down in the taxi he decided he made a good move in going back for the gun. He was sure he wouldn't need it and going through security again might be an issue but there were ways round that. Having the gun made him feel like he could help Sherlock, even save him if he needed to. He didn't like feeling powerless. Particularly after Sebastian had...Never mind. Sebastian had done well for himself. Better than any of the other colleagues he had heard of recently. He was a success. And why shouldn't he be.

As the taxi moved through London, its speed slowed down to almost a crawl. Gridlock. Getting back to the gallery could take a while. Sherlock would be on his own for longer than anticipated.

—

Back at the Tate Modern, the preview was nearly over. Sherlock was steadily getting more and more irritated at the lack of appearance from Ianus. He was about to give up and send a series of passive aggressive texts to Mycroft when boom. Ten minutes before closing time, there he was. Ianus was just handing over his coat to the attendant in the cloakroom, effortlessly cool in his Armarni suit. There was a twenty-something brunette on his arm. He'd moved on then. Pulling out a pair of black rimmed glasses from the inside pocket of his suit jacket and placing them on his face, he seemed to glide into the main space.

Nine minutes left.

Ianus knew what he wanted. That much was obvious. Why else would you only come to something like this minutes from its close. He was going shopping. Both Wolfie and Seb had made their way over to the man. They knew they were about to make some money here. The group was moving through the gallery to the back room.

Seven and a half minutes.

Sherlock followed them, keeping a distance and an eye out for the attacker. Most of the other guests were leaving the exhibition, moving on to drinks or simply going home. The list of killers was dwindling rapidly. The four figures entered the small room right at the end of the exhibition space. Including Sherlock, there were only six of them in there now.

Wait. Six?

Sherlock hadn't registered John coming in and standing next to him. He really must try and improve his peripheral vision. John was probably going to distract him now…

"Sherlock…"

And there it is

"That's Ianus isn't it?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes and looked down to John who seemed to be decidedly less like he was at death's door.

"Thank you for your input John. We've got roughly five minutes to save him"

"I thought you were just going to walk up to him and tell him he was going to die with all your customary tact and diplomacy"

"It's not that simple-"

"Aaand finally you're beginning to get a handle on human nature"

"Look at the room we are in. Perfectly square. No windows. Pristine white. Two beautifully shot and framed photos hanging on the walls and nothing else. Literally nothing else. No smoke alarms not even motion detectors. Zilch. The gallery is now empty, probably, and no one else will be venturing all the way back here"

"So the killer is in this room?"

Sherlock scanned the back of the heads of the other four occupants of the room. John recognised that look. He was deducing.

"No. None of them are armed. You couldn't conceal a weapon in that dress, not even a blade. Wolfie…well its Wolfie. I could list the reasons why the killer isn't him alphabetically, chronologically and in Swahili but I won't delight you with that for the time being. Maybe later. Sebastian's clothes have no pockets. His trousers fit well and his shirt sleeves are rolled up. In fact, the only person wearing a jacket who could conceivably conceal a weapon about his person in this room is Ianus himself and I don't think he is going to kill himself tonight, do you?"

"Well what now then?"

"Mycroft's source said that Ianus would be killed tonight in this gallery" Sherlock had raised his hands to his mouth in a prayer like position. John's patience was beginning to wear thin.

"No he didn't you deduced that"

Sherlock cast a sideways glance at John before retorting at his usual breakneck pace

"Before you go any further John, no I did not get it wrong. No one would kill in this room though. There are too many witnesses and only one escape route which involves passing a dozen security cameras in the main space. There would be an exact record of who came in and out. Not many people frequent modern art galleries at this hour. At least not legally or without an invite"

In front of Sherlock and John Ianus was shaking hands with Wolfie and Sebastian. The deal had been done. After the end of the public exhibition, the two photographs in this room were to be his. Ianus took off his glasses and placed them back into his jacket pocket. The four moved back towards the exit. Ianus stopped next to John and Sherlock and gestured towards the photographs on the back wall

"Beautiful aren't they? Things like that make all those long hours seem worthwhile"

Ianus smiled and took his girlfriend back towards the cloakroom. Wolfie and Sebastian stayed behind. John was determined to keep his cool and hold his head up this time. Sherlock watched as Ianus exited down the escalators in the perfect picture of good health. Wolfie clasped Sebastian around the shoulders

"Well, I have to say, when I met Bas in New York earlier this year, I just knew he was going to do well. He'd only been working as a photographer for a few years and his work was wonderful. He has a real understanding of light. The best at whatever he turns his hand to. An honour and privilege to work with. I am proud to even know you Bas"

Next to Wolfie Sebastian was looking humbled, as if a father was acknowledging his son's success. The two men looked at each other and John could tell there was real affection there. He was glad that Priva—, that Sebastian had found someone who appreciated him. Possibly even loved him. He didn't have that in Helmand. Whatever happened back then, Sebastian was happy now. It was just a surprise, and more than a little ironic, that the thing that earned him this latent success was photography.

By this time Sebastian had summoned up the courage to speak

"Thank you Wolfie. That means a lot. It really does" the two smiled at each other and shared a quick embrace before Sebastian turned back to Sherlock and John "I really hope you enjoyed tonight"

"Thank you. We have" Sherlock replied as they moved back towards the cloakroom. The two photographers said their goodbyes to Sherlock and John and left to make some rough calculations of how much they had made. When Sherlock was certain they were out of earshot he turned to John

"I know I wasn't wrong" he hissed

"Maybe the killer changed his plan. Got wind of the fact you knew something. Look, lets just put this down as a loss, update Mycroft and go home"

John placed a hand on Sherlock's back and guided him to the cloakroom. He handed in their tickets to collect their coats as the world's only consulting detective sulked next to him like a three year old.

Unpinning the tag from his own coat, he passed Sherlock his.

"Take the tag off Sherlock. You don't want the world knowing what number hanger your coat was on"

Sherlock was about to respond to the second most patronising thing John had said to him in the past half an hour alone when he stopped. He was examining the tag on his coat as if someone had pinned the order for his own execution onto it.

"John, we need to go back in"

"But the preview is over. No one is there anymore. Ianus is safe. Even Wolfie and Sebastian have gone"

Sherlock looked at John with genuine fear in his eyes. He ripped the tag off his coat and scrunched it up in his hand. He put his coat on in one fluid motion and headed back into the gallery, throwing the balled up tag into the rubbish as he went.

John followed but stopped by the bin and pulled out the discarded strip of paper. Opening it up, he frowned as he read what was printed on it

"I.O.U."

He put the ticket into his pocket and subconsciously touched the gun in his belt as he jogged round the corner to catch up with Sherlock, the limp a distant memory. As he reached Sherlock he was about to speak when Sherlock put a hand up to silence him. The two stood motionless at the entrance of the main gallery staring into the middle of the space.

Moriarty was stood on the wooden bench, camera in hand.

"Say cheese!" Moriarty took a photo and began to review it on the viewfinder "Ugh. You two. You don't even look the tiniest bit pleased to see me. I'll have to photoshop smiles onto your faces later"

Moriarty jumped down from the bench and placed the camera where he once stood. He walked towards the two men and passed silently between them. As he reached the end of the main room he turned and called back to them,

"If you want me I'll be longboarding in the Turbine Hall. Oh and Captain Watson, if you see Private Moran again, tell him I'm waiting"


End file.
